Snowed In edited
by Zcoldswife
Summary: The opera popular has been snowed in. Chaos is right around the corner. continuation.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: The story is co-authored by me and my friend Jessica you might have read parts on her account (****crazed-ink-slinger)****this is the updated and edited version. **

**Plot device. Plot device. Plot device. Plot device. The story stinks of it, I know. It's very unlikely for Paris to get two inches of snow, let alone a blizzard. But I don't care! Just go with it ok, I promise it will be good for lots of laughs. Hey, at least it breaks out of the mold right?**

**This has been to do hard because I like to write serious stories and this obviously isn't. We all have to do things we don't usually do at one point or another. This story is musical based but with a lot of influence from the book on characters. Jess wants to have her way again.**

**Many, many, thanks to Tytania Strange for all her kindness and support, she inspired our start, and we want to give her and her wonderful story a shout out, so read her story it's called "The Conjuror's Masque"**

**Disclaimer: Nothing here is made for profit and no matter how much we dream it will never belong to us.**

**Sorry for the long A/N.**

The silence that filled the evening where there should have been last minute questions, nervous shouts, pointless bickering, and one or two mishaps, all brought to me to sort out, betrayed the fact that I had been quietly denying ever since it had been settled. Tonight was my last night in the opera house. And not even a note from the opera ghost oddly enough. But I had done my job; the opera house might run almost without my assistance.

"It's not pink! It's salmon!" A too loud voice came from the next room. Too loud for this time of morning anyway. Or not, upon checking the pocket watch on the stand by my bed, I realized it was about ten o'clock. Well, it's no longer my job to be awake and readily available. I tried to convince myself that this was a good thing while I found my robe and pulling it on as I investigated what the argument I had heard.

"Look Jacque I don't care what the woman at M. Andre's office said, or how convincingly our secretary vouched for her, I'm not doing it. There's no way that we will possibly get paid for painting a man's office pink." I opened the door before the first man, or Jacque, could reply. It was clear just by looking at them what they were here to do: renovate. I was being pushed out of my office, and my position, and they were painting it pink, before it was even cold.

"Salmon, what a charming color." it was horrid. "Wonderful choice." Who in their right state of mind would choose such a color? My voice made the men start. It took them a moment to realize who I was. Jacque looked triumphantly at the second man.

"Thank you M. LeFevre." Jacque replied. It seemed that my approval was enough to convince them to start. As I turned to leave I caught a glance between the men that said something along the lines of "must be an opera thing," as the second shrugged and went for a brush.

By the looks of it Firmin had found the men for a 'deal' and honestly I hoped that they weren't very good at redecorating. I wasn't sure if the color was right either, but I wanted them to hate as much as I did. In any case, I didn't have time to waste babysitting third-rate painters. Even if I did I wouldn't spend my time watching these two destroy my office, as polite society would demand, as a favor for those who are kicking me out of it. Proper manners be damned.

It wasn't necessary, but out of habit I was ready in a few short minutes. Before I left I took one last look at my room, checking nooks to make sure they were emptied. There it was, 30 years of my life, packed away in a set of luggage. The ticket, one way to Australia on the Queen something or other, the name escapes me, was on the nightstand with my watch. I tucked both into my jacket slowly, and when I was done I was bowed my head, turned my back, and left the room.

Walking out it struck me as odd, once again that any man would want to spend his days in a room that resembled the inside of a fish. The complete picture was not what I wanted to carry with me as the last thing I remembered of the place, I hurried out before the painters could finish the walls.

The sight that met me directly outside the office door was not much better. I had to stop short of my first step or run directly into M. Andre and M. Firmin. Speaking of fish...

"Andre! Firmin! You're looking wet- er well." They were damp to say the least.

"It's snowing," said Andre brightly.

"Snowing?"

"Snowing," Firmin was a bit less chipper.

"This early in the year? In November?" It was more than a little unusual, something I wanted to enquire after, but at the look on Firmin's face I thought it best to move on quickly. I suppose there really was no question to be had, with the soggy evidence all too close and too clear, there must be some kind of freak weather at hand. Still, the first chance I had to slip away, I wanted to see it for myself, "I apologize gentlemen for not having met you out side. I hope you can forgive me for keeping you waiting," I slipped into a false, friendly, and proper manner (as any Parisian must be able to do), which was easier than I had expected. Well, I was ready to be done, and quietly was the quickest way out, "Now, if you'll follow me I can show you exactly what it is you've gotten yourself into."

Somewhere in the back of my mind I think I registered that this new turn of events might interfere with my travel plans. I had no idea. Until we reached the chaos that was the backstage, that is.

Apparently I had underestimated the ability of my workers to be so completely unproductive to the point of actually undoing their work, because they had. Somehow, I could have sworn that yesterday everything was ready for the performance. Usually, yes, usually there are last minute jobs to complete, causing some amount of panic. But nothing such as this. How could so much be done- well, undone in one dead-silent night?

I couldn't help but be amused by the disarray that everyone had caused as we weaved through it. Though any half-sane manger in charge of this mess would be at breaking point at having to sort this out by this evening, Andre and Firmin simply looked awestruck and amused. I felt sorry for the poor fools because there is no way that a stage and its crew should be in this condition even two weeks before the performance. But then again, I had an odd feeling that _every_ direction that I had given them and every department I had explained to them had bounced off Firmin's head and gotten stuck in Andre's bushy wet hair.

"Isaak Aluin LeFerve!" Here comes a devil. Normally Juliette is a collected and tactful woman, but apparently today is a bad day. I can't say I blame her, as she has to see this mess play out. "Carlotta is angry, and has been yelling for the manager for the better part of an hour. Am I supposed to thank you for finally showing up?" She flipped her braided hair, and if you've known her for as long as I, you would know that it meant that she was very annoyed.

I turned, and replied "You mean managers." One of whom, Firmin, was too busy ogling the ballet rats to be paying attention to what was happening around them. As a result he almost got run over by the elephant...unfortunately, it missed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Whoever it is, Carlotta's demanding to see them," Juliette stated, "And long as they hurry it's all the same to me." She gave me a pointed look, then turned and walked rigidly back to the mass horror ahead: the stage.

Andre and Firmin babbled something about a meeting and said they would rejoin me in a moment. I had my doubts about them finding their way back, but I was relieved to be rid of them. I began to follow Juliette Giry; when I heard a racket horrible enough to wilt pansies, and pansies are the strongest flowers in the world, Mother was somewhat of a botanist.

I quickly realized that the racket I was hearing was the product of a harassed orchestra combined with Carlotta's singing, it was then that it all made sense. I had to keep myself from laughing aloud. Those poor ignorant fools have no idea what is in store: Carlotta's wrath.

We rounded a corner and I stopped short. Some of the drunken stage hands were toppling out of the elephant due to its quick stop at the edge of the stage. A bottle had fallen from one of their hands and was headed toward a small group of ballerinas who were doing last minute stretches. Juliette let out an annoyed sigh, flipped her hair, and hurried off just as one of the girls lost her balance stepping on the bottle. All of the girls crowded around, and taking a quick count I realized half were missing. La Sorelli wasn't even present. She shouldn't have been detained by the weather; her flat was not even a block from the opera house.

It occurred to me to check at the stable entrance to see just what kind of turn up we had today. I turned to do just that when I saw the managers approaching. I was surprised: first, to see that the two had actually found their way back, and second, to be reminded that Sorelli and the ballet rats were no longer my problem. Andre and a guest stopped at my side, but Firmin was headed straight to center stage. I hurried to catch up, and grabbed his shoulder.

"Please, allow me to introduce you." The man was hell-bent on taking over as soon as possible. So be it, but he wasn't going to plow through the cast at the risk of running someone down.

Ryer interrupted the rehearsal process after a particularly ridiculous trill from Carlotta (much to every ones relief). I quickly stepped in to take my opportunity. With a truly Parisian smile, I wove the appropriate fables. I was 'retiring', Andre and Firmin were 'gentlemen', ect. Call it what you like: chronic lying, denial, social constipation; we don't care we're French. It's not French to insult with the truth. So, I refused to mention the crass show of political muscle the two weasels used to kick me from my post, or their clear ineptitude and inability to tell one note from another and sheer lack of leadership qualities.

"I am sure you have heard of their recent fortune amassed in the junk business." I couldn't help myself there.

"Scrap metal actually," insisted Andre. That sounded like a title Firmin would assign; it was like calling a garbage man a 'Sanitation Engineer'.

"And I want to introduce to you our newest patron, the Viscount de Chagny," Firmin interrupted with a slimy smile, and gestured to the boy beside him.

As it was now my duty to introduce the company leads, the question of Sorelli flitted briefly through my mind once more. Carlotta and Piangi played the dramatics up like only two egomaniacs could. When the dandy boy, Raoul, finally stepped up to make a speech I couldn't help but think his confidence was a little misplaced; he spoke like a bearded old viscount, when I don't think he could have managed to grow a mustache. He looked a little too surprised as his farewell was interrupted.

"Lefevre!" a patronized, yet somehow apathetic voice called out from the edge of the stage. I excused myself to address its owner, and there followed us an awkward silence. I put my arm around the boy and lead him off stage as if it was the most natural thing in the world, in an attempt to give our exit some of the dignity he'd been trying to get at. Carlotta raised her voice in an attempt to regain the spotlight.

"He love-a me, love-a me, love-a me, love-a me!" As we passed the outside of the crowd, I gave Madame Giry a meaningful look. She took my cue and approached Andre and Firmin to pull them off stage, so Ryer could regain control. I turned to face my employee.

"Isaak, how many times have I asked it? Keep your ballet rats out of my cellars!" There was a particularly wet, distressed looking girl standing next to him, whom he had by the arm, "I have more important things to do than look after wanderers that should know better. She thought to warm up by the furnaces and coal men, no thought for their characters, or her decency." A few of the near-by ballet rats, who were waiting for their entrance, snickered. Meg Giry blushed red, she knew better than I how long it would take to live such a scene down.

"Coal men?" Raoul asked, still close at hand. He stared at Meg as he asked the question. She crossed her arms in front of the chest of her _wet, white_ frock and frowned at him. I quickly shrugged off my coat and offered it up to her, as I gave Raoul a brief explanation. Meg hurried into the coat, a little red faced.

"The Opera Popular is much more immense than one imagines. Two levels underground is where our furnaces are fed and stoked in order to give us heat; we call the workers there coal men." Raoul nodded and tore his beady (had I not noticed?) eyes off little Giry to listen as I told him how to find the exit. Meg left as Raoul did and I turned to face the remaining man.

"For the record, I really _don't_ like some of the new workers." Known as The Shade to all the residences, the cloaked figure before me was covered in enough layers of various coats and scarves to hide any hint of an identity or face, aside from the felt hat which indicated the presence and location of a head. "Also, she's the second one this month. The residents are losing sight the fears that keep them from exploring the cellars. She really might have gotten hurt." He paused. "And if this is going to become a more regular part of my job, I truly do deserve a raise. Our current agreement isn't nearly enough for dealing with these types." He motioned to the stage where Piangi had fallen from the wooden elephant. I cringed.

"Sorry but you'll have to take that up with the new managers." The Shade followed my gaze toward Andre and Firmin.

"Those two half wits!" Like most people he could tell at first glance. "Wait, new managers? You didn't tell me-,"

"It slipped my mind," I stated, moving toward the stage. The number was almost over, and I was almost free to leave. As I took my place beside Andre he turned to me, he seemed to really enjoy being in the thick of the process.

"May I ask you why you're retiring?" the boorish question struck down my impression of him as the better of the two. He knew exactly the reason, and it was a thing even I'd been polite enough not to bring up.

"For my health," the lie came easily, and without the edge I'd intended. We were interrupted by Carlotta.

"All-a you wan' is-a dancing girls!" She was storming toward an exit. A look passed between the ballet rats, as it often did. Firmin hurried over to join Andre in begging my advice.

"Grovel!" Ha! "Grovel, grovel, grovel." Eat your hearts out. This was a memory to keep close to the heart, so with that I turned to leave. "Gentlemen, good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Australia."

At the edge of the stage I leaned up against a beam and paused to take in the scene one last time. When Carlotta began to trill something terrible, something in the rafters caught my attention. A cloaked figure was moving up in the catwalks. It wasn't the shade, or a scene shifter, it was- This was odd. He doesn't like coming topside, doesn't like crowds, or daylight, hates rehearsals, and yet there he was. I wonder why that was. One of the ballet rats then caught my gaze.

"It's The Phantom!" Amidst the screams of horror the figure stopped mid stride and pulled the nearest rope, for support (having been caught off guard) or convenience I could not tell. Carlotta let out a genuine cry, followed by infantile pouts to drown out even the ballet's chorus. The fly set had only been close enough to catch the end of her dress and pull her down. I watched as Madame Giry picked up the note that had fluttered to the ground. She approached Andre and Firmin with it, and _flipped her hair_. They were, of course, distracted, as Carlotta made her real exit. She was calling it a day sooner than I expected. The ghost's note, read aloud, only served to add fuel to Firmin's anger, yet they agreed to hear Daae. To me Christine was not a surprising suggestion, thought it was a convenient situation….

Daae had finally caught he full attention of the crowd when something dropped from the rafters. It was moving, and it fell directly into Christine's hair. As everyone else recoiled in fear, no thought of helping close at hand, I had no choice but to step back in.

Andre and Firmin only stared stupidly, the first at the rafters and the second at Christine. When I finally managed to extract it from the panicky, cowering ingénue (whose frenzied hand swatting had been to no avail) she shrieked, the rat squeaked, and Andre squealed. The latter caused the room to go silent so everyone heard the echo of him hitting the floor, passed out. The cleaning ladies, who could be heard in the audience, burst out laughing.

Firmin let out a "Not again!" and I suggested we continue our conversation in the office. As I finished speaking there was heard another crash, followed by:

"Ouch, my tailor made Egyptian-silk trousers!" it was the boy, the Viscount.

"You land-a on-a my dress-a, geed off-a!" and Carlotta. There was a resounding slap. When they got to the edge of the stage the entire cast crowded around, asking too many questions at once. All thought of practice was done for; so I was left, center stage, alone with an unconscious Andre sprawled on the floor, and Firmin. Ryer was standing abandoned in the orchestra pit, baton still aloft. Silently, praying for the peace that will not be coming for quite some time.


	3. Chapter 3

Carlotta's poodle, which I didn't recognize, ran through the crowd to bark at the rat in my hands, which I did recognize. I was able to extract the note attached to the rat by a piece of string before it flung itself from my arms. I also managed to catch the dog by the collar before a pursuit could cause any damage. Oddly enough, the poodle didn't resist as I picked it up. Firmin looked curiously, for a moment, at the rolled paper in my hand, while the dog tried to lick it. I handed the note to Firmin and set the poodle back down, as it had forgotten about the rat already, the dog seemed rather thick.

"That's not-," he began.

"Another note for the new managers, yes. But not from the Opera Ghost." The Shade had left the shadows of the backstage area as they had become crowded by the eager company members. "Personally, I find an actual appearance to be much more effective." He bent down and gave the dog a pat on the head.

"We should probably move him while everyone is out of the way." I nodded in the direction of the huddled performers. The Shade tipped his hat to a disgruntled looking Ryer as he passed, heading to try futilely to get rehearsals back on track. He then moved over and grabbed hold of Andre's ankles, with one hand. He looked up.

"Care to take his shoulders, or shall I just drag him to the office like this?" As tempted as I was, I bent to help. Firmin could not be bothered to do much more than sputter indignantly, throw questioning looks at The Shade, and follow us to the hideous office.

As we walked up the stairs Firmin leaned in close "Who-,"

"Ah, ah, I'm gone to Australia." I'm not getting more involved. I would go as far as the office; then I'd be gone.

Juliette Giry was waiting by the door for me. I didn't get an opportunity to slip away she'd already seen me. Firmin pushed his way past her, The Shade sighed, I suppose rolled his eyes couldn't be sure, and followed, and Juliette put her hand on my back to guide me in as if she didn't not feel my backwards resistance. She knows me too well.

Once inside Juliette pulled some smelling salts from her person to rouse Andre. He sat up and looked around curiously.

"That kind of behavior in rats is simply unacceptable!" he was clearly still distraught. Firmin dismissed his partner's distress, but seemed to agree at the same time.

"Apparently it carried this." Firmin held up the note, unrolled it, and read, "'I welcome you to my Opera house, and remind you that my salary is due.'

"Where have I heard that before? Oh, that's right, this morning. This poorly duplicated letter is obvious proof this whole thing is a hoax! Of all the vulgar jokes-,"

"I assure you **monsieur** it is no joke. This letter, judging by its delivery, is from another. The man is too absent minded to bother composing anything not on the subject of his science, and is a resident of the Opera House. He's the sort that manages to wear fine clothes badly, you know the type. Keep reading and you will see." Juliette was impatient. Firmin bristled at being instructed, like a child. But he must have been curious, for he continued.

"'I also request that you remember to keep the fourth and fifth cellars empty, for my use. If you do not comply, you will deal with an infestation beyond your imagination.

Quinn Webster,

Rat Catcher

P.S. Salary in Pounds only!'

Another salary! What kind of nonsense is this! Apparently the word manager has previously come with less authority than it merits." Firmin gave me a look that blamed this apparent negligence on my lack of discipline. Andre looked for all the world like he did not want to deal with the infestation.

"Come, come Richard, the man's title says it all. He's no specter; he provides a service, a _necessary_ service. _Please_ it's just, practical!"

"How well could he be doing. We've already seen a rat."

"Oh," Andre looked more threatened still, "Let's not go through the… _trouble_ of finding a new employee!" Firmin didn't reply, but continue to look peeved.

We didn't have to wait very long in the silence that followed. Barely a moment passed before the office doors slammed open and Carlotta stormed in followed by an abused Raoul, who sported a mud-stained and torn trouser leg. He put a sheepish hand through his ruffled hair, trying to cover a red cheek with it.

" 'E says-a we cannod leave." Carlotta directed the statement at me. When I didn't reply Andre tried to step in with a question. Carlotta shot him down with a withering look. "_I said_: 'e will nod led-a me leave." Again I didn't answer. Firmin was growing red by this time and so Andre gave a nervous cough, hinting to Raoul.

"Gentlemen, let me explain." Carlotta let out a huff. "Weather is as we have never seen it in Paris!" Boy this kid was all pomp and feathers. "The snow this morning continues to come down unrelentingly. I fear we do not have the proper skills or knowledge to be traveling about in it. So it is my suggestion that we wait out the storm, for the safety of your workers," he spoke to Firmin, who didn't seem all that interested, "the sake of _liability_," and to Andre, "and at the request of your patron. Besides, this is Paris, how long can it last?"

My thoughts were to send workers home to their families while conditions were still in the beginning stages, if they were so bad. There would obviously be no opening night. This seemed not to have occurred to Firmin, yet the word liability seemed enough to get though to him. The doors were as good as barred.

"Now, who shall we contact to have all of this arranged?" Firmin looked to me, determined to extract information this time. I was determined not to fold. Giry looked over to give me an icy glare and sighed.

"Come with me monsieur." She flipped her braid as she passed me and caught me in the back with her elbow. The managers and Raoul followed her staunch exit, but not without difficulty; she was not easy to keep up with.

"Well that's a fine thank you, for my help." The Shade, who'd been leaning quietly against a wall, straightened up and moved to the door. "But then, what else can you expect from this." He opened his arms and gestured to the re-painted salmon room. "By the way, Quinn knew, _Quinn_ knew before me? Were you just going to leave me in to dark until I was booted off the new payroll? And don't give me that, 'boo-hoo I should be gone to my plush retirement by now' game with me. Your silent brooding is even more annoying than your normal presence."

"You're one to speak," I shot at him.

"On second thought, I'll take the silence. I have things to do." And with that The Shade was gone; which left me with only one other question. I turned to Carlotta.

"Since when were you Italian?"

"Since when were you spineless?" she asked, reverting back to her usual Spanish accent.


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm French Carlotta I don't need a backbone, just a good excuse."

"Ha, _yeah_ 'retiring'. At the beginning of an opera season you've been planning all summer?"

"Let me see, is this what you'd like to have heard: 'Ladies and Gentleman, you've all heard the rumors of my imminent humiliation, these are the scumbags who are throwing me out on my derrière because our diplomats are more compelled by their purses than appreciation of our profession. That's right, go on with your meaningless lives which may be pulled from beneath you the moment a dollar dangles-'"

"Stop trying to make this about being the noble martyr who saves everyone from pain by quietly sacrificing your position for the greater good. Besides, I asked you if you had a spine, not a mouth. It's not as if Andre and Firmin are the only ones who know how to place a bribe."

"As demonstrated by the work you've done back on stage. How much did it cost to keep everyone overnight and start you nicely on your way to-?"

"Fighting your battles? I didn't have to pay for that. You're not the only one that realizes these two are clearly incompetent. We don't want them here. Besides, we owe you some loyalty, and this was as good a way as any to show it..." I gave her a pointed look of skepticism.

"You didn't pay _anyone?_"

"Oh, so there were a few social climbers to be pulled down, but it wasn't more than a few francs- and one or two well placed threats."

"The way a few of them reached out in welcome backstage I believe you should be looking for your money back. Juliette wasn't even- What I mean is, you and Piangi seemed to be the only ones playing the 'give them hell' game.

"Juliette is completely on your side, so don't use that as an excuse to delude yourself."

"I'm not deluding myself, and I advise you to try doing the same." We stared in silence for a moment and Carlotta gave me a look that said this conversation was only over for now. In this case, I'll take what I can get with Carlotta. I wouldn't be sticking around for a resolution anyhow.

"Did you really have to hit the boy, Raoul? Wasn't it a bit much?"

"Isaak, I'm a method actor, it's what I do. Besides, he's a de Chagny." Carlotta smiled mischievously. The real genius of Carlotta's diva act is the total dousing of her sense of humor.

"Ahem, yes, the de Chagny's… well I suppose that's enough qualify him, eh? But speaking of the Viscount again- is the weather really as bad as the boy was saying?" I was done trying to delve into the diva's sense of reason. I'm too old for that sort of puzzle.

"If not for the Viscounts demands I'd be gone, snow or no" she shrugged, "but that's me."

"I'm sure it's a sensible sentiment." I began toward the door. "I'll see this phenomenon for myself, shall I?"

"To see if the conditions are right for your weaseling your way out? Why not?" The diva's temper is not so much an act. As I reached for the door handle Carlotta put a hand on my shoulder.

"Wait, Isaak, what about O.G.? I do not think these two will handle your Opera Ghost as well as you do." She spoke slowly, putting her other hand up to stop the door, "If only for the sake of your friend…" Carlotta was one of the few who had figured out at least a part small of Erik's secret. She was one who did not give in easily to being ignorant to the goings on in her sphere of influence.

"He's not a child anymore and I am not responsible for him. Erik knows I'm leaving, in fact he probably knows in greater detail than I do how the deal went. There has been ample opportunity to prepare and he's not come to me about any problems. Therefore I must assume he has none. His fate is in his own hands." The words came out calm, cold. I turned the knob and pushed her hand from the door.

"And we both know how that seems to work out, _rosy hours_ and all." I pushed away the gruesome implications and tried to tell myself that Paris was not Persia. I focused instead on my annoyance at Carlotta's pension for unhealthy knowledge and bit my tongue in order to hold back a bitter response. _Australia_, I reminded myself, _Australia, _and turned the doorknob, "I suppose you'll persist in this ridiculous Italian masquerade?"

"Yes-a I will," she said. I supposed considering the alternative of driving them way- that has to 'work' with Andre and Firmin- anything was worth a shot. Carlotta brushed passed me out the door, Italian airs firmly back in place.

"But-a I think ee is about to do something. Thees morning-a, the reeging that fell, too close-a... eet's nevar happened before..." Carlotta let the whispered argument she'd been trying to draw me into all the way from the office trail off as we entered the hall to the Stable exit.

"I told you that one didn't lead to the stage!" Firmin's shouting was coming from inside the stables, and when we reached the doors I could see an irate man trying to calm a white horse upset by the noise. By the animal's furious stamping I could see he wanted to put end to the obnoxious creature creating it. The stables on the East side of the Opera, where animals such as doves and horses for la Propheta where lodged, were also used as a workers entrance far more convenient than the grand entrance.

"Where is that blasted woman!" he continued his rant, obliviously pacing closet to the angry horse. He was obviously the type to be blinded by rage.

"Not-a even Juliette-a, eh?" Carlotta smiled in quiet triumph.

"I've never seen a woman of her age move so quickly..." Raoul was shaking his head in confusion. Andre, still puffing from the pursuit nodded in agreement.

"I-a see you are-a lost without your Prima Donna," Carlotta said haughtily in lieu of a more formal announcement of our presence. We entered the stables, and instead of pausing inside I headed directly toward the door. Carlotta continued on with me, looking petulantly upon the three men as she passed. They followed.

The opposite wing of the opera was an entrance for the more private guests, and a receiving area that had been built for the emperor himself. These two wings lined the streets that led to the open square in front of the Palace Garnier, and it was upon one of these side streets that I emerged into the frigged air. Carlotta's breath came out in small clouds beside me, and snowflakes fell violently on my hatless head. Despite the hearty flakes that partially obstructed my vision, like a slight fog, there were only 3 to 4 inches of powder on the ground.

It was a striking, even pleasant sight and hardly seemed impairing. I wondered if I might make my boat after all and my spirits lifted. My hand went instinctively to the ticket still in my jacket pocket, and Carlotta glared as I brought it forth and looked it over.

"Tisk, tisk de Chagny, this is hardly a dire situation at all," I turned back toward the stables, "In fact, driver-" My request was cut short by a commotion on the street blow.

Our group turned at the sound and watched as a carriage careened down the street past the market stall it had run straight through, and came to a stop with a sickening crack. The carriage ran head on into a street lamp. Its driver was thrown past the spooked horses, weighed down by the harnesses. One of the occupants stumbles clumsily from inside, top hat askew, and called for help to carry out his wife. Nearby shop owners and patrons, caught waiting out the weather, swarmed onto the street and began to busy themselves sorting the accident. I stuffed my ticked back into my pocket and Raoul gave a meaningful cough. You could once again see the word liability written across Firmin's face.

"Please withhold consent to any further passage by carriage," I yielded to necessity and addressed the stable manager, helping to take the most important immediate action. Down the street someone screamed, beside me Carlotta gasped, as a man was pulled from between the carriage and the light pole. He'd succumbed to the pedestrian's fate due a coincidental meeting of time and place. I then added with a heavy heart, "Please deny the passage of anyone who wishes to proceed on foot as well."

"I suppose we should continue on to the stage and alert the various heads of departments to ensure that no one leaves..." Firmin had turned from the scene on the street and had to pull Andre around to get his attention.

"Yes, yes," he agreed, shaking his head and looking at the straw floor. Raoul was already across the street (despite having taken another quick fall in the snow on his way) seeing if he could aid the couple. Andre looked up at me and Firmin followed his gaze. I sighed in defeat at the knowledge that this, at least, w_as_ duly expected of me. Carlotta put her hand on my shoulder.

"For now," I said firmly. Firmin smiled imperiously and, to a degree, so did Carlotta.

We all began toward the stage. I should at least be sure that they made it there this time. As we rounded a corner I heard the last annoyed whiny of the horse who had sought the end of Firmin and his voice. The trainer had his hands full between the two equal disturbances of Firmin's arrival, and the carriage accident across the way.

Back at the stage Carlotta turned on the managers, demanding this and that for staying while still withholding her talent from the company. By means of diversion Andre and Firmin approached Ryer and called for Madame Giry, who was back drilling the ballerinas. I slipped back onto the sidelines; unnoticed, leaving for the more secluded departments to make sure their managers got the notice.

Barely ten steps on my way and I was stopped by a muffled yell that echoed from the hall to my left. As I gave into the more pressing matter and sought the source of the distressed cry, The Shade's opinion of the new help came to mind. My pace quickened, and my state of alarm rose when I realized I was in one of the dressing room halls. A fresh stream of curses helped me to identify the door, and I hesitated at the thought of what I might find behind it. In the past Erik... and others… had insured it would be see to it that just such things should not happened, but with the way the state things had been of late I wasn't sure what to expect.


	5. Chapter 5

One last angry shriek issued and the door was thrown open, and I with it into the wall, by little Meg Giry. She hurried down the hall, muttering in an amazingly absentminded _and_ irritated manner about an "ignorant slimy pig-man."

As I stood, I faltered. Slumped on the couch of the dressing room, with her head in her hands, and Christine's hand on her back comfortingly, was La Sorelli. Sorelli was one of the Opera's principle dancers, daughter of a principle dancer, who was the daughter of another, and so forth. She looked like Hell. Christine made a helpless face. I felt it should be more accurately reflected on my own – two situations, two tangled web's I'd wished to avoid, and I'd just rushed headlong into both of them.

First a painful goodbye (I still faintly hoped) to a good and _persistent _friend like Sorelli, and secondly the object of Erik's alarming new affections, Christine. I put these thoughts from myself as I did my best to completely blend into the background. But that's rather futile when a person stares directly at you.

"Oh, M. Lefevre, Meg has just gone looking for you!" as Christine spoke Sorelli looked up and attempted to recover herself.

"Well, she found me" I said, rubbing my head a bit tenderly.

"Isaak, dear man," Sorelli laughed coquettishly at me (or rather, attempted to do so), "Today I am afraid I require another small token of your generosity. You would not deny me in my great hour of need would you?"

It was an event when she went even a month without gathering a sizable pile of some such "tokens" from me and various other men who frequented the opera. La Sorelli had the finest eyes in Paris, and could hardly be denied. And for the moment she fixed them on me. Christine sat aside and tried not to look put out.

"Whatever could a poor retired manager have to offer one such as you, Sorelli?" I was too old to fold so easily to a pair of eyes.

"Not retired yet, not until your keys are handed over!" She was anything but subtle; stupidly some mistook this and her flippant attitude to be a sign of a lack of cleverness and one of those things was shrewdly exact, popularly seen as a lack of tact, needless to say, she was not well liked by the gossips. A man is never too old to fold to a biting truth; he can only fight it blindly for a moment.

"You know as well as I do that that's not really how it – well, it's all just ceremonial and-" A creeping felling of guilt began to radiate from the second envelope in my jacket. The one I'd stowed the keys in last night…The one I did not ceremoniously hand over this afternoon but rather intended to drop off by way of post, ceremoniously, err, accidentally, addressed via Peru rather than Paris. But that-

"But it's missing!" Sorelli cut me off mid sentence and mid thought.

"What?" the question begged asking.

"My ri- the – _**his**_ ring," She looked down for a fraction of a second.

"It's Cherry wood, it means love, and besides, it's lucky," she scoffed, but not at the thought that her rich lover gave her a wooden ring (as any should have), but at the next one, "But apparently not lucky enough. I'd taken it off because, well, anyway, we found this in its place…That means you know where to find it right?" She held out a coin. It was British, whether it was pound of pence I don't know, but that wasn't the important part. The person, or rather, creature, that left it was.

"Sorelli, I would love nothing more than to help you but,"

"No. Listen here. I want it back so I can throw it in his face, not weep over it!" These were the two most common reactions she had displayed to events for some weeks now. Christine put her hand supportively on Sorelli's shoulder. The "He" mentioned was Phillipe de Chagny, Sorelli had been 'on terms' with him for several years now. The small, delicately carved, but mostly inauspicious, wooden ring had appeared on the third finger of her left hand a year and a half ago. It frequently disappeared in the wake of small spats between the two, but without fail would quietly return to its place. This mention of its permanent removal was a sure sign she'd finally come to grips with the reality of the nature of aristocratic flings. She was not the first dancer to fall from the clouds into this harsh reality. My inherent distaste for the disregard Aristocrats was legendary even if my personal reasons were not. It was sure that I would go out of my way to see anything thrown in the face of such lowlifes. De Chagny in particular.

"Is that a promise?" and as I fixed her with a 'look' I decided I would take my chances. I held our my hand for the coin, promised to be back momentarily, and hurried out of the room before I had to think too hard on the goodbye to come.

Soon I emerged on the left side of the stage and headed for the main staircase down to the gas room, from which the gas lights used in the theater were controlled. I was just two steps down when I felt a small hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw that its owner, Meg Giry, was not better spirits than when she'd slammed me behind the door minutes earlier.

"Isaak I have been looking for you high and low!" Meg did not usually posses her mother's pointed anger, being of a more scattered energy which made her distracted and absent minded when angry. I pointedly removed her hand from my shoulder and held up the British coin in my hand. It lead her focus back to the original problem.

"Quinn's the culprit. He's got the ring. It's being taken care of. How about you turn around and go make sure Sorelli hasn't decided to keep the ring. I know you don't like Phillipe any more than I do." I told her.

"I suppose," Meg said, and nodded. As she turned to leave she let out an exasperated sigh. I though little of this as I continued. After crossing another two flights of stairs and three departments Meg was the only person I didn't manage to avoid – I was almost surprised that I went unnoticed in the morning bustle. But only almost, for the opera does have many seldom used passages.

The cellars of the opera house are enormous_. _There were five in total. When I reached the third cellar under the stage I moved away from the scenes stored in the more central area and toward the outer walls. This area housed the water works, which were meant to combat the high water level around the foundation. I had just reached them when I heard a shrill whistle and a deep voice.

"Gentleman! All theater police go to the stage, the new managers wish to do a debriefing!" For several moments after the voice called out I stood in the shadows skirting around the edge of the system of pipes and watched as several men passed. This was one of the better looked after passages of the cellar, considering the more delicate workings and pumps which lay just beyond it. It would not do to have stragglers wandering in and causing damage here.

After a time, waiting, a rat flitted past my foot. I turned and followed it rather than recoiling. This area was the heart of the Opera's rat infestation and so it was the regular location of the Rat Catcher. His domain tended to be the central collection area of "lost" odds and ends (such as the one Sorelli had sent me for). If something that which disappeared was replaced by some coin of British currency, it was a sign it had been taken by one of the rats Quinn was experimenting with. They were trained to leave "compensation' for anything they took from upper levels. Occasionally it was something rather irreplaceable, and it was known that if I was contacted it would be fetched. I usually sent The Shade – as I didn't much relish wandering in these levels. It always managed to cause the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on my neck.

One soon became far too aware that there was just something not what meets the eye down here even if you knew what it was. I had often thought that if the theater police failed the fear itself would certainly do the trick of repelling all but the most heinously determined trespassers.

I pushed on, despite the smell, and smell, until I saw a faint light. I was here: a far corner of the third cellar where the walls were lined with shelves holding odd bottles, scales, and miscellaneous scientific instruments which poured onto several long tables pushed against the walls. Papers were scattered everywhere so that no surface was visible beneath them - not even the floor. Upon my approach several rats poked their heads from beneath the sheets on the floor and scattered as they saw me. This set-up had not existed some five years ago, though it seemed several decades would be required to accumulate so many layers of abandoned projects.

Quincy Webster, the power behind this organized chaos, had come to me those years ago. He had a brought promise of mysterious government funded research, whose proceeds would benefit the current establishment, and so I gave into his odd request for the post of Rat Catcher. It was partially because of what was also lurking about somewhere down here: the previous occupant of the very post.

Around the time Quinn arrived, the previous Rat Catcher had started to grow so elderly that he was slacking in his work. I had noted a marked improvement upon Quinn's taking up the post. Still, I decided to let the old man to think he still had his post. He was far too aged and eccentric to know how to do anything else but creep around the cellar, and his pay was small. Luckily, the senile old Rat Catcher was not the figure which caught my eye at the dim edge of the lit space.

"Do 'better things to do' include harassing small furry creatures?" I had to ask. The Shade didn't bother to look up as I moved toward one of the workbenches.

"If that's what it takes to find several items of interest, yes," He said, "And regardless, being confined down here would still be less painful than being around you of late Isaak. Ouch!" The hand flew to his mouth from the angry clutches of a small violated sounding rat. I decided this was a reflex more than anything. Not many things could penetrate the thick gloves he wore.

As I shivered a bit in the cold I couldn't help feel a small twinge of envy toward his many layers. The Shade was on his hands and knees systematically shuffling through the papers. Before I could raise the questions he retorted, "The previous statement stands, rodent bites and all."

"I'll not argue that then," I said, slumping into a sensible wooden chair and peering at the microscope perched next to it on the table. It was mostly useless to try to find anything in Quinn's 'Lab', without Quinn. The same held true for the man himself; he was hard to find when he so desired.

"So, you wouldn't have happened to have seen a-"

"No," again The Shade did not look up when he replied.

"Well, do you think-"

"No."

"I see," I said, once more looking casually into the microscope eyepiece.

"I assume the theater police have been called to the stage?" The Shade asked.

"Yes, why?"

"Their absence has allowed for a few extra guests. Yours I presume." He gestured to a far corner.

There was a muffled cry of surprise and a white rat flew out from behind a pillar. A red-faced Christine Daae stumbled around after it, and Meg followed, clutching at her skirt with a pained expression on her face, trying to hold in her horror I assume. Sorelli swirled around the corner gracefully and gave her best smile.

"Rats," she laughed, "They get Meg every time…"

I stood up and walked over to The Shade, who was still bent over, searching through the piles of paper. "I remember the phobia," He said, "It's how I found her this morning. It gave her away."

"Oh, I heard about that," Sorelli looked at Meg with a smile. I thought she was probably mostly amused and somewhat thrilled at the blatant violation of social expectations in progress. She tended to do whatever she wanted just for the sake of it – leaning rather heavily on the excuse of her mother's early death for her apparent ignorance."

"But – you've been in your dressing room all day, how -" Meg turned red at the thought of this morning's scene.

"Meg, who do you think you're talking to?"

"More importantly, why would you be searching for the _Rat_ Catcher?" I said.

"That's easy," Sorelli laughed.

"Yes, it is," said the Shade, "The sneaky little Giry has been trying to get down here for the better part of a year. She knows a good opportunity when she sees it."

"Actually," Christine raised her hand politely, "I thought if we caught up to you I might also find some things of mine which have gone missing lately: a buckle, a handkerchief, even a shoe." The shade looked up and met my gaze.

"No, I, I, I don't think it's quite the same thing," I knew it wasn't, not where Christine was concerned, "I'm sure you've just misplaced them."

"But Monsieur, I don't lose things. Lately things have simply been...disappearing. That is the only way to describe it!"

"I know," I mumbled. It was Eric's handiwork.

"You... know?" her eyebrows knit together in confusion.

As she spoke, from the darkness to the left a figure emerged, cloaked and ear-muffed, muttering, distractedly in another language. English, I never cared for that harsh sounding language.

He took off a heavy pair of gloves and sat in the chair I had recently vacated. All conversation was suspended as we watched him shed his coat and traveling cap, brushing off snow as he went. He seemed completely unaware of our presence. One of the rats climbed up onto his left shoulder and started reaching for the breast pocket of his jacket. The man reached into the pocket and pulled out a bit of food and a pencil. The rat snatched the food and quickly started devouring the morsel. The man scribbled quickly on a scrap piece of parchment as we continued to watch in silence.

Though his figure was unassuming, a compact 5'5'', his air commanded attention. He reached up to brush a last bit of snow from the edge of his sandy brown hair, and was struck in the back of the head by a crumpled paper. The rat looked up and skittered away. Only then did the man raise his head and turn around, realizing he had an audience.

"Oh hullo! Err, I mean, bonjour," he said, adjusting his thin, wire framed spectacles, "Uh, cup of tea?" he offered.


	6. Chapter 6

"Please," Sorelli said, and walked over to a second table next to a stove. The other girls followed haltingly.

"Charming as that sounds Quinn, I just need you to retrieve something from your thieving minions, and I'll be getting on. We'll _all_ be getting on."

"Minions? Oh – yes, well what have they taken now?"

"My good hat," The Shade said, "Again."

"Ah, yes, yes, sincerest apologies old man; it's hard to get a rat to understand certain niceties you see. I've tried a hundred times if I've tried once but...You know, actually, the other day Muffy here-"

"Quinn," The Shade interrupted.

"Ahem, right," Quinn retrieved the kettle from the small stove and offered it to the women around the table. They each possessed one of a collection of shabby, eclectic, and lightly grubby cups he'd busied himself gathering along with sugar and a bit of cream. Sorelli smiled and held hers up, Meg followed suit, and Christine whipped hers briefly with a bit sleeve before doing the same.

The Shade refused the final cup in the set when it was offered to him; instead he leaned back against the longer of the collection of tables. He knew the drill. This was going to take a moment. Quinn did not bother offering me a cup, taking it instead for himself. He seemed to be mentally checking himself, and like The Shade, I did not bother pushing. He was English, he was taking a cup of tea, and so there was nothing to be done. Besides, he was waiting.

After another few moments of silence and sipping a rat scampered past our little scene. Quinn stood and began to mosey after the rodent. I was the only one to follow him from the pool of light. The girls started conversing the moment we were out of sight, and the farther I followed Quinn into the labyrinth of the water system, ducking and weaving where appropriate, the fainter their voices grew. The Shade had long given up trying to catch onto Quinn's secrets; even Eric has admitted was a mystery, sourly attributing it to some deficiency rather than to actual talent. I followed drawn simply by fascination. Moments later we reached a large pile of various shredded papers, clothes, and even a few stray wigs. Quinn silently knelt down and started fishing. One paper passed in front of him and he turned a bit red in the face, as far as I could tell in the half light.

"Eric will be wanting _this _back I expect," he shoved the paper into my hands and went back to searching. As I squinted to make out the words I was able to decipher that it was an order form, specifying certain modification to a single standard shop mannequin. Chocolate eyes, brown hair, in short a perfect likeness of Christine Daae, the careful tea-drinker sitting closer to her angel of music here in a basement than she'd ever suspect. I momentarily wondered whether leaving the order form here to line a nest in the dark and dank would encourage Eric to give up on the uncomfortable idea. Giving the paper a second look put my hopes to rest, as I realized it to actually be a receipt. Too late for that I guess.

Quinn seemed to sense my growing discomfort and looked up. I pointed out the part of the paper that indicated it was a finished transaction and he paused all together, "You don't say..."

"Err – is that the hat?" I pointed to something dark (it was not felt or flat, and for The Shade therefore qualified as formal wear).

"Good form," Quinn said, and glanced at the paper in my hands, "Well, I believe that I've found the correct ring. We best _hurry _on, eh?" Implying that it would be best to hurry Christine out of the cellars before Erik found out she was down here.

"Right you are -" dread was sinking into my thoughts, pulled forward by this strange find. Quinn stood and I followed after him, tucking the paper into a jacket pocket. Soon we heard the voice deemed favored by 'angels.' Quinn was brushing off The Shade's hat and holding it up. The Shade took it and hesitated only a moment before removing the old one and putting it firmly on his head. He seemed to be arguing with himself. I wanted to say something snide about groveling to the new establishment, but obviously his inner turmoil was a greater cruelty. I left him to it.

Sorelli stood up and approached Quinn with her hand held out expectantly, "Did you find it?"

"I believe so. This is the one?" he took the ring from his pocket and held it up. All three girls called out triumphantly at the sight. Sorelli flung her arms around Quinn, who stiffened. I imagined he'd not quite adjusted the free spirit of such French women as Sorelli. She took no notice, having now not a care in the world.

"What a brave man to bring me my object of victory!" she laughed. She retried the ring and he managed to break free. His face assumed a cover of the air of an absent attitude once again. He muttered to himself as he slipped away, glancing back briefly before turning to the worktable The Shade had been leaning on, when Meg and Christine joined Sorelli to gloat over her prize.

"We will be forever grateful to you sir, for granting us the opportunity of seeing this thrown back into the face of a deserving rascal!" Meg called at Quinn's back. Christine's face echoed the venom in the statement upon the thought of the de Chagny's.

"As I do not believe you will find said rascal by remaining in the Opera cellars, I trust you will be getting on," The Shade gestured for the ladies to follow him. Elated as they were, the girls put up no quarrel. Without a word to Quinn, who would hear nothing now that he was seated at his lab table, I began to take lave as well.

I turned back, perplexed, as he gave a cough, "I don't think you should go just yet."


End file.
